The Price
by astraplain
Summary: Florian's first night in his new home. Disclaimer: Ray, Florian, and all the jewels belong to You Higuri.


Florian dismissed the servant with a nod of thanks, waiting until he turned away before closing the door. 

Thankful to be alone, Florian crossed the small room in five strides and dropped onto the unfamiliar bed. The mattress was too soft, and he knew he'd sleep poorly until he adapted. No matter, he'd manage. Adapting was one thing he was good at, after all.

He gave his new room another look, finding it small and plain. Perfect, he supposed, for one in his impoverished state. Not that it bothered him - he'd had his fill of drafty suites full of precious family heirlooms. There'd been more than one cold night in the past few years when he would have cheerfully traded all of those heirlooms for firewood or something warm to eat.

Perhaps, someday, he'd even be grateful for his sudden change in circumstances. Not today, though, with his mother's piteous cries still echoing in his ears, the image of her grief-lined face burned into his vision.

Who would look after her now?

He'd done what he could for her, packing only the barest essentials of clothing and a few personal mementos that held no saleable value. The rest - everything else he owned - had been bundled carefully and given to Jacqueline, the housekeeper. She'd been his confidant for years, taking whatever belongings he was able to give and trading them for what coins she could get. Coins she held separate from the household accounts, saving them from being squandered on parties and other frivolities Madam Rochefort insisted on. Instead, they were used for necessities - food staples and heating fuel. The very things Florian so often did without.

Those small sacrifices seemed the only ones he was capable of, and he made them gladly. His only regret was the deception. He disliked the lies and excuses he was forced to tell his mother when she asked about missing items or his absence at mealtimes. Thankfully those questions had stopped more than a year ago. Florian took comfort in that and refused to consider the implications.

He'd gotten quite good at that over the years - training himself to accept things and not question or analyze them. Just as he'd gotten good at wearing the facade of a carefree young aristocrat. He played his part well, attending parties and functions as the dutiful son, never letting himself react to the whispered comments and rumors about him or his mother.

It was no secret that the proud Rocheforts were nearly penniless. Yet the same people who spread vicious rumors attended their balls, eating their food and drinking their champagne without hesitation. Florian had no use for any of them. The very few who made sincere offers of help had been turned them away firmly by his mother.

Most of the family fortune was lost during the Paris Commune thirty years ago. At that time, Florian's father was severely wounded. He lingered for fourteen years, during which time Florian was born and most of the remaining fortune was spent on doctors and medical care. By the time Duke Rochefort passed away, Florian's mother was left with few resources and fewer friends.

Florian's mother had tried to keep up the illusion of wealth all those years, mortgaging all the land first, then selling the family heirlooms. Much of the mansion was empty now and most of the rooms closed off.

But still she insisted on the facade, trading family treasures for a few moments of fantasy. Even pretending that someone like Ray Balzac Courland would help her for the sake of family.

Florian ached for her, knowing how her desperation had been slowly driving her mad. She had been breaking to pieces as many years as he could remember, and he had stayed beside her, desperately trying to keep her together.

He found no irony in the fact that she herself had sent him away. Somehow he'd known it would come to this - her choice between her only son and the gem that had haunted the family for years. Sadly, he'd also known how she'd choose. That's why he'd snatched the check from Count Courland and demanded the price be set. At least this way she could pretend that she hadn't sold her only child for the sake of a lifeless rock.

Florian knew he wasn't smart, or clever, and he certainly wasn't physically strong. His schooling had been conducted under a parade of private tutors, hired and fired as the money dictated. He certainly wasn't naturally gifted. His only assets were his looks, especially his eyes. He knew he should be grateful that his new owner was only interested in those eyes. There had been others who had been interested in more and Florian wondered more than once if he'd have to accept their whispered offers of payment for an evening of his time.

At least now he would be spared that indignity, although Ray's list of expectations left Florian little doubt that he'd face indignities enough, not even mentioning the ones he'd face outside the door when his peers heard of his new circumstances.

Shivering a little, Florian pulled the edge of the bedspread up over himself and burrowed in. He closed his eyes against a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room and tried not to picture his mother's face as Ray demanded her son or the jewel. He refused to think about the small rectangle of paper and the number written on it - a value far less than the family treasure. The selling price of Florian Rochefort, last of his family line.


End file.
